CHAPTER XIX. MY GRANDFATHER.
“ Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Still, still far wide!
Phy. He’s scarce awake—Let him alone awhile—
Lear. Where have I been?—where am I?—fair daylight
I am mightily abused—I should even die with pity,
To see another thus—I know not what to say.”
Shakespeare.
With pleasant and profitable reminiscences of burglary and abduction, Shemus Rhua entertained the fosterer on the road, until the worthy twain accomplished their journey in perfect safety, and ensconced themselves, as we mentioned before, in that safe and salubrious section of the Modern Babylon, supposed to be under the immediate protection of St. Patrick, and the especial surveillance of the police, vulgarly ycleped the Seven Dials. There we shall leave them to recover from the fatigues incident to a migration, au pied, from “the far west,” until, like giants refreshed, they should find themselves ready for a fresh start upon the world, to try, as the rat-catcher philosophically remarked, “their fortunes—any how.”
I need scarcely say that I availed myself of Mr. Hartley’s permission, and early in the forenoon presented myself at his hotel. As I had expected, he was from home; but Dominique conducted me to the presence of his young mistress; and, to judge from the kindness of my welcome, the visit was not disagreeable.
It was late when Mr. Hartley returned to dinner; and after the cloth had been removed, and Isidora had retired, he resumed a subject that he had casually mentioned to me before, namely, how far it would be prudent or possible to place myself in the presence of my grandfather, and try what impression my unexpected appearance might produce.
“I have made secret inquiries,” he said, “respecting Mr. Clifford’s habits, to find out how an interview could be achieved, but I have failed in obtaining any information but what is vague and unsatisfactory; but, as Clifford Hall is only twenty miles from town, you shall run down, Hector, and try whether fortune may not do more for you than I can. The domain adjoins the village of —————. There you will find a rustic inn; and there, also, you may probably glean some information that may direct your course of action afterwards. Thither, at present, it would be imprudent in me to venture; but you are unknown, and consequently you may venture safely. You will find your grand-sire under the double thrall of his steward and his Confessor. I shall sketch both for you.
“The former was born in the house, and reared and educated from charitable motives by the old gentleman, from his having become an orphan while an infant. Gradually, he rose from dependency to affluence; in time he managed the old man’s income; and report says, that he has secured a goodly fortune from the pilferings of the estate. It was whispered that he had secretly encouraged Mr. Clifford’s discarded boy in his wild and profligate career; and that, by the suppression of letters and numerous acts of villany beside, he contrived to snap the last link of natural affection between an angry father and a guilty son. Certainly, in the hour of young Clifford’s disgrace and destitution, he evinced the blackest ingratitude to one who, badly as he might have behaved to others, had showered favours on him when a boy, and trusted him afterwards with unlimited confidence. Such is Morley the steward; and now we will briefly sketch Daniels the confessor.
“He is a Jesuit; born, I believe, in England, but educated abroad; a deep designing zealot—bigoted to his own faith, and intolerant to all besides. The great object of his existence is to aggrandize the order he belongs to; and by the exercise of monastic influence on a mind always superstitious, and now imbecile from age, he trusts to alienate from natural heirs the noble estates of that weak old man, to whom he has become a ghostly counsellor. In short, Morley and Daniels act with a unity of purpose, but different end: the one, to build a fortune for himself; the other, to gratify a monk’s ambition, and raise himself to a commanding position in that order which he intends to aggrandize at the expense of your mother and yourself. You can easily understand that every obstacle will be placed in your way by individuals so deeply interested in preventing the old man from being reconciled to a child he once was so devotedly attached to; and whether you succeed or fail, matters cannot be more unpromising than they are. They say the fortunes of an Irishman carry him, at times, through difficulties which to other mortals would prove insuperable. Try yours, Hector—something may be gained—and, need I tell you?—nothing can be lost.”
I followed Mr. Hartley’s advice, and started next evening by a stage coach that passed the village he had named; and at dusk I alighted at a clean and comfortable public-house, intituled the Fox and Hounds.
The evening was sharp, and, as I had travelled outside, an introduction to a snug parlour and sparkling wood-fire was agreeable. I ordered supper and a bed; and, while the former was being prepared, considered in what manner, and by what means, I should endeavour to obtain an interview with Mr. Clifford. Mr. Hartley had recommended me to glean some intelligence from the landlord, should I find him inclined to be communicative; and, when the cloth had been removed and a correct assortment of fluids was placed upon the table, I desired “mine host” to be summoned to the presence.
When he appeared, I had no difficulty to ascertain at a glance that he had pursued in earlier life the honourable trade of arms, and, like myself, had been intended to supply “food for powder.” He was a tall, hale, hearty-looking veteran, and stout for his years, albeit Father Time had silvered his head and stooped his shoulders. Still maintaining that feeling of deference when in the presence of a superior, which military usage renders habitual, he drew himself up at the foot of the table, and respectfully inquired “what my honour wanted?”
“Nothing, my worthy host, but your company for half an hour. The evenings grow long, and I hate ‘to drink one hand against the other,’ as we say in Ireland. If I guess right, you have retired from a profession on which I have but entered recently.”
“Yes, sir,” returned he of the Fox and Hounds;—“I wore the king’s livery for fifteen years; and, God bless him, now that I have done my work, he allows me two-and-eightpence a-day to enable me to drink his health in comfort.”
“You seem, when you bade Brown-Bess good-bye, to have taken up comfortable quarters here, my friend.”
“I am, thank God, not only comfortable, but in garrison I hope for life. When I returned home, I married the sergeant-major’s widow. Well, we each had laid by a bit of money—put it together—took this house—and after being five years keeping the business going on, things have gone straight enough with us, and we are better by the half than when we entered it. I wish every worn-out soldier had as snug cantonments for old age.”
“Have you served abroad?”
“I began in Holland with the Duke of York, and I finished in Spain with poor Sir John.”
“What regiments did you serve in?”
“Never but in one, the old steady fifty —th. Under its honoured colours I stood my last field, at Corunna, and fought my first one at Malines.”
“You were in the grenadiers; do you remember who commanded?”
“As stout a soldier as ever took a company into fire—Colonel O’Halloran.”
“Then you fought under my father.”
The retired soldier put down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and for a moment scanned my features eagerly.
“By Heaven!—the living image of the kindest and bravest officer under whom a soldier ever served! I am prouder, sir, in having you this night beneath my humble roof, than if you called a prince your father.” And stretching forward his hand, the veteran grasped mine in his with an honest ardour that proved how deeply military attachment takes root, and how dearly the remembrance of “auld lang syne” is cherished in the soldier’s memory. “And now,” he said, “what is there in the Fox and Hounds which I can offer to my old colonel’s son?”
“Nothing but what is already on the table; but possibly you could, in another matter, render me some assistance?”
“Name but the way in which John Williams can be serviceable.”
“You know my relationship to Mr. Clifford?”
“Perfectly. I was with my gallant captain the night we stole his beautiful lady from the convent garden. Alas! many a time it has grieved me to the heart, to think that the old gentleman should remain so cold and unforgiving as he is; but he is poisoned against his child by the priests and villains who surround him. How can I be useful? What do you intend to do?—Do you intend to call on the old man? If you do, I fear there are those about him who will prevent it. No one is allowed to see him but in the presence of that dark monk they call Father Daniels. The house is guarded like a gaol, and the gates are locked against the world.”
“I despair of obtaining an interview by open means,” I replied—“How shall I manage it by secret ones?”
“It will be all but impossible,” said the sergeant. “I will think over it to-night; and if a chance exist we’ll try it, hit or miss. But soft!—surely that voice which I hear in the kitchen is old George Smith the keeper’s? He is the only one of the old servants now remaining at the Hall; and, only that his master has a strong regard for him, and won’t listen to any stories to his disadvantage, he would have shared the fate of others, and been sent adrift as they were. Father Daniels hates him; and, faith, its cordially returned! The old keeper remembers your honour’s mother well, and many a time he speaks of her—and I’ll stake my pension, that he will befriend the son of her whom he still reverences in his heart.”
As he spoke, the sergeant rose and left the room.—Irishmen are all more or less superstitious; and I hailed it as a happy omen, that, in the very opening of my attempt, fate should have thrown across me an old comrade of my father. To succeed, I had scarce a hope; but, for every reason, I was ambitious to fail respectably. I was experimentalizing under the direction of one whose good opinion I was anxious to secure; and I determined that when I returned to town, I would at least satisfy Mr. Hartley that I had struck boldly, although the blow had failed.
In ten minutes the host returned, followed by an elderly man. The latter made me a dutiful obeisance; but when approaching the table, and the light fell strongly on my face, under a sudden impulse he caught my hand, pressed it to his lips, and seemed to be powerfully affected. The likeness to my mother at once established my identity; and in a few minutes, if by the agency of George Smith I could have been placed in that house to which I wus natural heir, it would have been instantly effected. A half-hour’s conversation determined our course of operations, and I learned enough regarding my grandfather’s habits to convince me, that, with good luck, the interview I desired might be obtained.
It appeared that in good weather, there was a favourite seat in a sheltered corner of the park, to which Mr. Clifford generally repaired. There he would sometimes remain an hour, while the Confessor walked backwards and forwards reading the daily office which the rules of his order imposed. Occasionally, Mr. Clifford employed himself with some devotional book; and all intrusions on the part of servants were rigidly prohibited. From strangers none could be apprehended, as none were allowed to pass the gates.
In a thick clump immediately adjacent to the bench where Mr. Clifford rested, it was arranged that I should lie perdu, and if fortune offered the opportunity, I was to sally from my ambuscade, and seize it. The keeper was to assist me to scale the wall, and point out the place where I could best conceal myself—and, to the blind goddess of the wheel, the rest was properly committed.
I know not wherefore, but that night I went to sleep with all the buoyancy of hope, although I had no reason to think that chances wild as mine could prove successful. In my dreams, however, results were fortunate—every obstacle was overcome—I was reconciled to Mr. Clifford; and, better still, united to Isidora.
After breakfast old George announced himself, and the weather was propitious. It was one of those fine autumnal mornings which promise a hot noon and a frosty evening. From an angle of the park wall, the lower bough of a large beech tree extended itself. It was not ten feet above the ground, and, by throwing a rope across, it required but small exertion to gain it; and that done, the entrance to the park was easy. Inside, the gamekeeper was to await my advent. The host furnished me with what is not generally an acceptable present; but the halter—for it was one—well nigh proved the ladder to my fortunes.
At the appointed time I made the attempt, and succeeded; and, stealing along the shrubbery, gained the clump, and took a safe position behind a thick holly, not six yards distant from the seat which the keeper pointed out as the one generally occupied by Mr. Clifford.
All proceeded as I expected and had hoped—and the mildness of the day induced the old gentleman to take his customary walk. He was attended by the Jesuit, on whose arm he leaned; and on reaching his resting-place, he received a book from the Confessor, and commenced reading a passage which the monk had pointed out. In a few minutes the churchman strolled some distance from the bench, and while I was considering the way in which I should present myself to the old man without occasioning alarm, to my unspeakable satisfaction, I observed a servant approach the Confessor hastily, and after a brief communication, they both walked away in the direction of the house.
I seized the golden opportunity, stole from my retreat, and placed myself in front of the old gentleman, and, so silently, that he remained with his eyes fixed upon the book for more than a minute afterwards. Presently he looked up—he stared at me with evident surprise—for it was a rare occurrence to find himself alone with a stranger—and in a low tone he asked me “if I wished to speak with him?”
I advanced another step, knelt at the old man’s feet, and gently took his hand.
“What means this?—Who are you?” he muttered.
“A son, come hither to solicit pardon for a parent—your grandchild begs your blessing!”
“Ha! these are Ellen’s features! Merciful God!—Do I rave, or dream? Speak, boy—your name?”
“O’Halloran.”
“Your business?—Quick!—quick!”
“Pardon for my mother.”
“Ellen, Ellen, Ellen!” he feebly muttered; and next moment be fainted in my arms.
I was dreadfully alarmed. I thought my sudden appearance had operated fatally, called loudly for assistance, and on looking around to see whether my summons had been heard, observed that the Jesuit, followed by several men, was running towards me rapidly. In another minute he was at our side; and never, in a human countenance, were anger and astonishment so mingled as in his.
“Remove your master!” he exclaimed to the servants. “Who are you, sir?” he continued, bending his shaggy brows over eyes of sinister expression, and directing their deadly glare at me. “How dare you intrude where strangers are excluded?”
“By right of kindred!” I thundered in return.
The monk’s face blanched. “Remove your master instantly,” he continued, “and eject this man—by force, if necessary!”
“Beware!” I said; “the man who tries it may count on broken bones!”
“Who are you?” the monk inquired, haughtily “Your name?—Your business?”
The men who accompanied him hesitated to obey his orders; and still the old man reclined with his head upon my breast, while my arm supported him. Certainly, of the priest’s body-guard none were gentlemen who would volunteer a forlorn hope; and, astounded at the bold tone I used to one, who at Clifford Hall had exercised a despotic authority, they seemed any thing but anxious to bring matters to hostile conclusions. But when I announced my name and relationship to their master, they all receded, leaving the matter to be settled by the Jesuit and myself.
The Confessor, with admirable skill, at once changed his tactics, and adopted another course.
“Mr. O’Halloran, to use the mildest term it admits, your visit has been imprudent. Mark in the old man’s illness the consequences of your rashness! Why did you not notice your intention? Could I have induced your grandsire to receive you, I would have done so willingly, and thus have prevented a shock that may prove—and I fear it will—fatal! For God’s sake, be advised by me. Leave the park, and let your relative receive immediate attention. You see the first effect—would you, should he recover the first shock, expose him to a second? When he is well enough to write, I pledge my word, you shall receive an instant communication. If you persevere, death will inevitably ensue; and how, may I ask, will you, forewarned as you are, excuse the rashness, the madness, that occasioned it?”
The specious arguments of the Jesuit prevailed, and I acceded to his proposition. I could not tell the cause that overpowered my grandfather’s feeble strength; nor could I even guess whether it were anger, or an outbreaking of revived affection. In my doubts, I agreed to the monk’s proposal—saw the old man carried in a chair to the house—and quitted the domain, perfectly unconscious whether my visit had mitigated or confirmed his animosity.
In one brief hour that question was put to rest, and a letter, addressed to me at the Fox and Hounds, apprised me that my grandfather considered my mother an enfant perdu, and that his displeasure was unmitigable!
In a remote apartment of Mr. Clifford’s mansion, that evening, two men might have been discovered in earnest conversation; one had a countenance sallow, cunning, and repulsive; and a figure remarkable for its height and irregular proportions; the other was a middle-sized elderly man, with a certain air and intelligence that might stamp him a pawnbroker, money-dealer, thieves’ attorney, or any other profession appertaining to the “wide-awake” school. Heed I say the twain were the Confessor and house-steward of my grandfather? Both exhibited unequivocal appearances of anxiety and annoyance; and though there were wines upon the table, neither seemed inclined to use them.
“Was there ever any thing more unfortunate than this evening’s occurrence?” exclaimed the Jesuit. “For months the old man has never been left a moment to himself; and one unguarded interval, what mischief has it not produced! Another interview—and all that you and I for years have laboured to effect is totally, hopelessly—-undone!”
“It is too true,” replied the steward.
“He’ll never make a will now!”
“Have we not already made one for him?” said the steward.
The priest shook his head—“That deed, my friend, will never bear the light. We stand in a dangerous position; and had not the old man fainted, we were ruined. Even now the mischief is not abated—he talks of nothing but his daughter, and raves about the duty of forgiveness which a father should extend to an erring child. What is to be done?”
The steward mused for a minute—his brows contracted, and a dark expression passed across his face. “Father,” he said, “the intruder must be removed.”
The Jesuit looked at his companion, but spoke not. The look, however, said—“Would that it were done!”
“Money will effect it,” said the steward.
The Jesuit continued silent, and then carelessly observed, “I would give a thousand pounds this cursed interview had not occurred!”
“Would you, holy father, give as much to prevent a seeond?” asked the steward.
The Jesuit nodded.
“Enough; I shall act promptly now. Hark! A knock at the door! Come in!”
It was a message from Mr. Clifford requiring that the Confessor should attend him instantly. Father Daniels rose.
“Stop,” he said, “till I hear what the old man wants.” And, so saying, he left the apartment.
He was not absent long; and when he entered the chamber, he held an open letter in his hand. Carefully closing the door, he thus addressed his confederate:
“Said I not right—Our position is all but desperate? What think ye was the old man’s business?—To desire the son of his repudiated daughter to return to-morrow; and to give directions, that I should write and order it to be so. Were that to happen, need I name the result?—all—all lost! Well, I obeyed, and wrote this letter”———
“As he dictated?—are you mad, holy father?” inquired the steward. “Not exactly.‘Tis thus worded:—
“‘Rash Boy!
“‘Your mother’s misconduct wrung my heart, and your unwarrantable intrusion has nearly brought me to the grave. As you dread the malediction of an old man—desist!—and for ever avoid the presence of one who can never look but with abhorrence on the offspring of a guilty daughter.’
“‘Tis signed—ay, and in his own handwriting too—
“‘John Clifford.’”
“Excellent! This will prevent another visit,” said the steward.
“You are too sanguine, my friend. The young man is daring;—he may make a second effort. If he succeed—if he gain a second time the sight of his grandfather, the tale is told. This fabricated letter may prevent the meeting for a while—but more effectual measures to secure mutual safety are indispensable.”
“I understand you, holy father,” returned the steward;—“money will be necessary.”
“Money shall not be wanting,” said the Confessor. “This note procrastinates, but does not avert the crisis.”
The steward nodded his head. “‘Tis a breathing-time, that shall not be thrown away;—I’m off to London immediately.”
“Heaven speed thee!” said the monk; and the hand of God’s minister, imprecating a blessing, was laid upon a wretch’s head whose avowed embassy was—murder!
To my humble counsellors, the keeper and the sergeant, I communicated what we all considered the decided failure of my experiment. I resolved to return direct to town—and a place was booked accordingly in the stage. Another passenger accompanied me—and how different are the ends which influence men’s actions! I hurried back to town to bask in the smiles of my young and artless Isidora. The object of my compagnon du voyage was very opposite,—the gentleman was Mr. Morley; and his embassy—nothing but to accomplish my assassination.